


Sure Fingers

by Tarlan



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-04
Updated: 2002-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/pseuds/Tarlan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vin focuses on Chris hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> 'Body Parts' challenge.

Long, slender and so agile. I love to watch his fingers. They have such a sure, firm grip as they curl around whatever object suits his needs of the moment. Many would think them brown and coarse, callused from a lifetime of hard work, tanned by the heat of the sun, but not I.

He's been many things: a farmer's son, those chubby, soft child's fingers toughening as he carried out his daily chores. He had been a horse rancher; a strip of leather looped tightly around those fingers, adding new calluses as his sure grip on the reins showed the bucking bronco who was master.

He had been a husband. Those fingers would have traced Sarah's silky skin, brushed across a dusky nipple... and he had been a father. Would he have been ashamed of his fingers then, ashamed of the hardened skin, afraid that the roughness of finger pads would hurt the delicate, butter-soft flesh of this new life?

Now he is a gun for hire and, as I watch those fingers now, I see the loving way they handle his gun, gently lubricating the barrel then stroking along the length with a soft rag, like a lover's caress.

I imagine my own pulsing erection is that barrel, his fingers tracing the thick vein, teasing beneath the foreskin. The rough pad of his thumb would smear the evidence of my passion for him. I would gasp as a ragged fingernail added to the sensation, making me hiss with pleasurable pain. Those fingers would curl about my hardened shaft, moving with an easy rhythm, gifting me with the ecstasy of relief by his hand.

I return my attention to my own gun, noticing my own fingers for the first time. Are they so different from his? They are brown and coarsened from my own years of hard living. I flick a few errant strands of the long curls back from where they have fallen across my face as I bow to my own cleaning task but, surreptitiously, glance back at his strong fingers before I look into his face.

I smile and those green eyes smile right back at me. Once these guns are clean then I won't have to make do with my own imagination any longer.

THE END


End file.
